


The Prime Minister and the Tea Boy

by LelithSugar, Paxdracona



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Love Actually Fusion, British Comedy, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Hartwin, Light Angst, Love Actually References, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Romantic Comedy, angst is for about five seconds because we all know what's coming, minimal unavoidable politics played for comedic effect, of sorts, questionable nativity plays, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paxdracona/pseuds/Paxdracona
Summary: HART THROB IN NUMBER TENproclaims The Sun’s front page the day Harry Hart takes up residence as Prime Minister. He can’t say he was really expecting to become a sex symbol at the age of fifty two and the peak of a divisive political career, but at this point, Britain was going to fancy pretty much anything.Now complete, and with art. <3 Merry Christmas!The Love Actually AU that nobody asked for and probably isn't the one anyone expected.





	1. Read All About It

**Author's Note:**

> My silly little festive thanks for being an ace fandom. A teaser to get you started for tonight, since I'm on such a high from finishing Lie To Me!
> 
> Fair warning: this is not in essence a three chapter fic. Much like the movie storylines it’s a bit of an ensemble of scenes, so you get this tonight and the rest in two big fairly arbitrary chunks because that’s what I’ve got time to post and yes, this will be up in time for Christmas come hell or bloody high water. Enjoy. Bother me on twitter since tumblr decided I’m filth - @agentsnakebite

The Prime Minister and the Tea Boy

**HART THROB IN NUMBER TEN** proclaims The Sun’s front page the day Harry Hart takes up residence as Prime Minister. He can’t say he was really expecting to become a sex symbol at the age of fifty two and the peak of a divisive political career, but he supposed following someone who resembled the Spitting Image puppet of Margaret Thatcher and someone who allegedly fucked a dead pig’s face, Britain was going to fancy pretty much anything. 

Someone has thoughtfully left a copy of it on Harry’s desk, where he installs himself for what he’s sure will be the first of many small nervous breakdowns of his term. He’s put off meeting all but the head of his household staff until the end of the day, over fizzy wine and bowls of crisps that’s coming out of his own pocket because he’d like to wait at least three weeks before inadvertently getting into am expenses scandal.

Harry breathes deep and tries to calm his shakes. All he’s done is walk up some steps, through a door and down a corridor, and wave like an absolute wanker to the world’s press. Any moment now someone’s going to realise they’ve put him in charge of a country, march in laughing and sort it all out.

The only person who marches in - after politely knocking, of course - is Emma, the incredibly well put together head of household at Ten Downing Street. She obviously runs a very tight ship: she’s eloquent and personable, gentle but no-nonsense in the face of her new boss' overwhelmed babbling and Harry has to stop himself before he breaks down at her patent navy heels and begs her to run the country instead. 

“How does it feel, sir?”

“Ludicrous," manages Harry, after some thought. “Better get on with it really, hadn’t I. Any chance of refreshments whilst we sit down and you tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do and how to do it?”

She smiles, not giving anything away because presumably everybody with power thrust upon them very suddenly following twenty years of tirelessly working for exactly that thinks they’re funny, and equally clearly none of them are anything of the sort. 

“Certainly.” She presses a button. “A black coffee and a … strong white tea, three sugars?” She looks at him to ensure she’s remembered correctly, not judging, and he nods.

The judgement comes from an estuary accent over the intercom. 

_ “Who the fuck takes three sugars in their tea?” _

She blanches. “Your prime minister.”

_ “Oh shit! Sorry! Coming right up.”  _

“That’s Gary. He’s… spirited. Came up through one of the work placement programmes.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

Of course, Harry doesn’t really mean those words  - doesn’t even truly know what it means to mean them - until he actually sees him. 

_ Gary _ is a short sweep of dark blonde hair, sparking green eyes and a bright smile atop an athletic form wrapped up in an obviously brand new polo shirt, horrid nylon dress trousers and a blue canvas apron. 

“Sorry I took the piss out of your sugar. Brought you extra biscuits if you’ve got a sweet tooth.” He lays the plate reverently on the corner of Harry's desk and stands back, close to snubbing his toe into the carpet with chagrin, what might be a fluster pinkening the top edge of his sharp cheeks. It’s very becoming on him and Harry finds his words caught in his throat for a moment. 

“It’s quite alright, it’s ridiculous. You must be Gary.”

“No. Well, yeah, but nobody calls me that. Eggsy.” He steps f orward for a handshake. Stoically ignoring Emma's look, which is pointed in the direction of him saying as little as possible and then removing himself, Eggsy strides on.  “If you tell me what you like, they’re teaching me to do the orders from the caterers.”

“Chocolate,” admits Harry.

Eggsy gives him a conspiratorial wink on the way out of the door, and Harry finds himself staring at it long after it closes, at about handle level which must be why he recalls the view of Eggsy;s trim, polyester clad arse, his eyes burned with the memory of that smile like he’s looked directly at the sun. 

“Bollocks,” Harry sighs against his steepled fingers. “Fuck-shitting, arse wanking bollocks.” 

 


	2. Hot off the Press

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably have posted all of these little scenes as separate chapters, but it would've meant delaying until way after Christmas. So perhaps try to read them that way? They're more a series of scenes that happen over a course of time than one chapter in the more traditional sense.

 

  
  


Harry’s never been so grateful to see Eggsy as when he brings in a huge steel trolley laden with tea urns, crockery and boxes of biscuits. The worst of the meeting is over, Harry just left with the closest of his cabinet to mull over what a total hash he’s just made of setting out their position to various ambassadors ahead of a G-whatever-it-is-now. Nobody’s going to blame him for being desperate for a cup of tea; his dry throat is absolutely nothing to do with the smooth tension of synthetic fabric across Eggsy’s rather magnificent arse when he bends over to get cups and plates from the bottom. 

As is his small personal custom - not because he’s making the most of the view - he waits until last to file up for his tea.

“Oi, Big Guv,” Eggsy says cheerfully without looking round, and a few of the cabinet nearest give him a look, but he continues obliviously. “Which one’s your mug?”

“What?” Harry’s still thinking about how hurt Eggsy had looked when he’d tried to put a stop to that nickname, how he’d stammered over earnest apologies about the way he spoke, that it was a term of endearment if anything but he knew that was just as bad, and Harry had ended up backtracking entirely. He’s tempted to send those crystal green eyes to negotiate for political hostages. “Oh. No one in particular. I’ll take whatever comes to hand.”

Most of the rest of the room has gathered to the antechamber for their break and Eggsy is holding out Harry’s tea to him, staring like Harry's just told him he's thinking about invading the Isle of Wight.

“You ain’t got a mug?”

“We have plenty.”

“But like… your mug. Your own mug.”  Eggsy holds up his own, the slightly dishwasher scratched legend proudly proclaiming him the world’s best big brother and Harry can believe it. He seems like the silly faces sort; the not afraid of fingerpainting sort; the sort that would treasure any gift like he dotes on that poor battered mug.

“I don’t think I’m that confidently best at anything. I don’t have any siblings.” Harry runs his hand through his hair. “Best prime minister is definitely a stretch.”

“Well, you’re the best one we’ve got,” Eggsy offers quite seriously.

Harry chokes on a laugh. That, he supposes, is true, and somehow that reassurance and a KitKat are enough to get him through the rest of the afternoon.

  


 

Like most people who spend the majority of their working life at a desk, the highlights of Harry’s days are the brief interludes for caffeine and chocolate hobnobs, in his case made all the sweeter by being borne to him by the object of his inconvenient daydreams and increasingly pathetic emails to his best friend, his perennial unwilling confidant. 

Poor Merlin, who is currently - in addition to trying to steer Harry through the minefield of his poorly timed mid life crisis - trying to navigate his own treacherous waters. Harry may well have just been put in charge of a country but Merlin’s just been put in charge of a primary school, so Harry returns the favour of a listening to his oddly similar woes whenever possible and accepts his skype call when it pops up whilst he’s waiting for lunch.

“Good to catch you. I know you’ve probably spent your morning trying to avert another Cold War or substantiating trade deals that underpin our entire success as a nation, but this nativity’s going to be the death of me.” The usually unflappable Scot looks tired and Harry doesn’t blame him: he’d take UN summits any day over wranglingfive hundred four to twelve year olds under the influence of Advent Calendar chocolate.  “We let year three design the programmes, and all the holly looks like it’s got bollocks instead of berries.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“That’s the least of it. Never work with children or animals, Harry. Children dressed as animals is even worse. And of course nae bugger wants to be a sheep so we’ve got a stable full of Pokemon, two sloths and a tarantula. And just to save an argument, we’ve cast a Mr Potatohead as the baby Jesus.”

It’s at that moment Eggsy makes his appearance with Harry’s tea and a plate covered with clingfilm, beam of sunshine that he is. Harry nods to him and continues his conversation.

“Sounds wise,” he says, not really remembering what he’s answering because Eggsy leans across the desk to put Harry’s cup on the coaster exactly where it’s put, which brings him close enough for Harry to smell him and to get a look at that beauty spot framed by the divot in his shirt’s collar.

“Oh! Sorry guv. Er. Sir. Didn’t realise you were in a meetin’.”

“Quite alright, Eggsy, we’re just chatting. Merlin’s an old friend.”

“And getting older with every email about inappropriate ebay costumes.”

Eggsy hurries to remove himself nonetheless: puts a Penguin bar down on the table next to Harry’s tea, leaves his lunch just so, smiles, and saunters out, closing the door behind him.

“ _ That’s _ Eggsy?”

“It is.” Harry knows he sounds dreamy, but he can’t help it. He’s especially silly with excitement today because he happened to have noticed two thick, flat rubber bracelets around Eggsy’s wrist when he’d brought the morning tray in. The red and blue he recognised instantly as Help for Heroes, which makes sense given the little he gleaned from the boy’s CV, and the other he can’t read other than ‘-gbt+’ but even without that the rainbow makes the point.

He knows it’s ridiculous. Just because Eggsy may be interested in men does not mean he’s interested in greying politicians old enough to be his father, and what on Earth makes him think he’d be available anyway? Harry would have had a boy for every day of the week at that age if he’d looked like that. Two on a Saturday. 

Merlin knows the look on his face very well indeed.

“Oh Harry. Please tell me you’re not trying to shag the tea boy.”

“Don’t be absurd, ” says Harry, in the slightly pompous tone of voice that always comes to him when he’s being obtuse. “He’s a Facilities Coordinator.” 

“You can’t shag one of those either.”

He knows that, obviously, but it doesn’t make it any less pleasant a thought and it wouldn’t stop him thinking it even if it did.

“You’re right of course. He referred to the president as a _ star spangled spunktrumpet _ yesterday. How do you think he’d feel about being Foreign Secretary?” 

 

“Can I interest you-“ Eggsy drawls -  _ yes, _ thinks Harry automatically before he can even finish his sentence  _ but please do carry on _ \- “in being part of the Number Ten Secret Santa?”

Harry groans. He’s managed to just about skirt the horrors of an actual party on the premises because he knows how they go: two glasses of cava too many and a photocopy of someone’s arse gets faxed to North Korea. The staff were just as happy with an early finish for mince pies with a cup of Eggsy’s so ably made tea in the drawing room so that they can head off for something more fun without Harry there. They'll all have an absolute skinfull, Eggsy’ll probably end up pulling some rippling demigod from Security under the mistletoe and Harry is just better off not witnessing any of it.

Still, he tries to look like he’s at least making an effort, and it seems as though it’s something of a pet project. “You’re in charge of it?”

“Yep!” Eggsy grins proudly. “Budget’s a strict tenner, and you’ve got to get it yourself. Well, you can order it but no delegatin’. I’ll know.” He points a finger at Harry, the purse of his lips mockingly stern and painfully kissable.

“Are you in fact making a list and checking it twice?”  That’s got… connotations, now he thinks about it, but Harry’s said it and now it’s out there and so is the word  _ naughty _ in relation to Eggsy, and Harry can feel it taking years of his life. “Can you at least rig it so that I get someone easy?”

“Nah! Play fair!” He looks thoughtfully at the packet of bourbon creams in his hand, twists the end of the packet closed and slides them mock-surreptitiously onto Harry’s desk. “Otherwise I’ll get accused of having favourites.”

Harry smiles appreciatively, gathering that it’s a deal well struck although he hasn’t actually done anything. He is technically the most powerful man in the country, though, so there is that.  He nudges the biscuits out of sight behind an organiser, and hand's Eggsy back the day's papers to chuck into the recycling on his way out. The initially distressing  **ANARCHY LOOMS** turned out to be about wheelie bin collections in Harrow.  Nothing drastically interesting. "See you in the morning?”

“Nah, I’m on leave tomorrow. Got to be there for Daisy’s nativity rehearsal.”

For a moment he almost has heart failure at the idea that he might be so roundly incorrect about everything in life as to have missed Eggsy having a girlfriend, but then his conversations with Merlin occur to him: nativity plays are for children. That thought doesn't make him feel any less stupid.

“Your... daughter?”

Eggsy looks mildly affronted, then it morphs into amusement. “Baby sister.” He holds up his mug and then shakes his rainbow wristband in Harry’s direction. “I ain’t breeding, thanks.”  He's seemingly oblivious to what he’s said. But then, perhaps that doesn’t mean what it did in Harry’s day anymore. Or perhaps Harry is in fact just a spectacularly horrible old pervert. 

“Well, I’d hate to assume. I barely know anything about you, which seems terribly Upstairs Downstairs now that I think about it…although I do know you’re too young to remember Upstairs Downstairs. So, no children. Husband?” Eggsy chuckles like that’s intended as a joke but Harry wouldn’t blame anyone for snapping him up.  “Boyfriend? Foreign millionaire who buys you expensive presents in exchange for pictures of your feet?“

“Nah. Thought I had. A boyfriend, not whatever the fuck that last bit was about.” His brow wrinkles accusingly but then he carries on. “Been seein’ someone, thought it was turning into something serious ‘til I mentioned Christmas and he laughed at me. Said he couldn’t take a pleb like me to meet his family, wasn’t exactly relationship material, was I? Sorry, you don’t want to hear all my drama.”

“Oh Eggsy, honestly, the day an old queen like me turns down gossiping about your love life please make sure you get the defence team scrambled to pick off the flying pigs. They may be a terrorist threat. Sit down. Have a mince pie?”

He takes one, and the offered chair, with that bloody grin. “At least I can stuff my face with Quality Street without worrying I’m going to lose all I’ve got keeping him interested." he takes Harry's silently raised eyebrows as the question that they are. "Said good job I had an arse you could park a Boris Bike in ‘cos I ain’t got nothin else going for me.”

He tries not to picture it. Unsuccessfully. 

“This ex of yours doesn’t sound like the type to pick up public hire bicycles.”

“Oi! Who you- oh. No.”

“He drives?”

“A Merc, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Is it, though? Is it that it’s natural for Eggsy to be seducing the sort of man who drives a Mercedes in the city? Or natural to him now that anybody who would is the type to dismiss him out of hand? Harry can’t have that. “If you’d be so kind as to write down the registration for me, I’ll make sure some lines get painted underneath it and have it turned into a sardine tin at the first possible opportunity.”

Eggsy looks skeptically at him, but like he might laugh. “Nah. You’re alright.”

“Ah, I was hoping that would suffice. Alright. MI6 owe me a couple of favours. By Wednesday he’ll never have existed.”

Eggsy smiles around a mouthful of pastry, and it makes his cheeks dimple. 

“What… about you? I mean obviously you ain’t got a family unless you’re hiding them in the upstairs cupboards.”

“Tragic perpetual bachelor I’m afraid.”

“By choice, obviously.”

“You’d be surprised.” Would he? The  _ obviously  _  was a sweet touch but does Eggsy actually think he could have anybody he wanted? Wouldn’t it be lovely, if it were that simple.

“They’re shipping you with Justin Trudeau.”

“They’re what, sorry?”

Eggsy pales a little, and looks distinctly uncomfortable although Harry isn’t sure why.  “Oh. Like… betting you’ll get it together. Only with more wishful thinking. And photoshop. Anyways. I’d better… get on with it.”

Rather hurriedly, he brushes the crumbs off his lap and leaves Harry to the mercy of Google.

“Ah, Harry.” 

It’s hardly surprising, following a …  _ difficult _ few days of actual work that Harry finds Chester King requesting an audience. Chester is one of the remaining bastions of the old school: the voice of grudging sense, sometimes, and of unfortunate stupid truth at others. Of  _ it may be wrong, but people who vote for you believe it,  _  and the balance he provides is at times valuable. It doesn’t mean Harry has to enjoy his company. 

”I’m glad you made time for me. I know we don’t always see eye to eye but you know I always have our country’s best interests at heart, and I do have some advice for you.”

Harry pours them both a sherry, which he hopes looks like he’s being traditional and isn’t because he needs the swift kick of alcohol to stop himself giving Chester his own choice snippets of advice, starting with getting the broom handle out of his arse if he isn’t enjoying it, and then perhaps removing himself from Harry’s office just because he’s jealous it was never his.

Chester sips from his tumbler, unaware.

“I won’t mince my words: you might want to wind it in a bit whilst the delegates are here. We all appreciate your attempts to make our government appear inclusive and diverse, and your…  personality might have won you the Brighton vote but we need to be taken seriously.”

Harry breathes out long and deep, and takes another sip of his sherry before he says something he’ll regret. He had a feeling Chester’s cronies and been taking note of the relaxing of a few protocols lately and… is he right? Harry would doubt himself less if he didn’t know full well his own motives aren’t entirely social.

“I understand."   


“And it’s not something I need to be worrying about?”

“No." He sighs. "No. You can rely on me."

As much as being asked to do what he knows he’s being asked to do rankles, Harry’s learned to choose his battles and it is - probably, regrettably - high time he put the lid on that little delusion and got a grip.  Removing Eggsy’s unknown factor from the equation is an easy win in that sense. 

Chester isn’t asking him not to be gay. Chester is asking him not to spend a crucial political summit making eyes at a working class twentysomething boy who will in all likelihood open his mouth and out both feet in it, and to what end? A few more minutes of his lovely smile, and getting caught staring at his arse when he carries the tea urns out? 

It’s a small bloody miracle Harry's own preoccupation hasn’t already got him into trouble:he’s been all over the place; blurting out some unfortunate nonsense about the results of the ‘General Erection’ was all over the internet for a sticky, humiliating few hours but thankfully it’s so close to Christmas is that almost everything is second billing to Strictly Come Dancing, and the real saving grace is that one of the remaining contenders was exposed in a wholly unsurprising affair with their dance partner that same afternoon.

**IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO** condescends the front page Eggsy cheerfully chucks on Harry’s desk and when he comes in to quickly deposit a tray of refreshments. Yes, he supposes it does, and isn’t that a sobering thought? 

As soon as he’s gone, Harry presses the button to call Emma in before he can waiver.

“Ah, Emma, thank you. Could you…  possibly find another project to place Eggsy on?”

She looks surprised, but perhaps more by the timing. She’d done nothing but apologise for Eggsy’s habits and mannerisms from the get go. 

“Certainly sir. Is there a disciplinary issue? We can-“

“No, no. Not at all. He’s been splendid. Just a personality clash I’m afraid but I’m sure you can find something else he’ll be suited to? He’s rather wasted on tea and biscuits.”

“Say no more, sir.”

He wants to, but he doesn’t, and that’s that.

 

If anybody’s ever given the impression Harry Hart doesn’t hate Christmas, they’re a liar. It’s miserably cold, wet and windy out without anything like the beauty of snow and the country’s gone bloody mad as though businesses and families are preparing for the apocalypse rather than two midweek bank holidays.

**CHRISTMAS CHAOS** blares the front page Eggsy’s bland, formal replacement politely brings to him and he’s no more bothered about the perfect storm of tube strikes and technical failure and actual storms that have ground most of the city’s transport networks to a frozen halt than he is about learning their name. 

It’s all gone bloody wrong. Well, it hasn’t in the wider sense: Harry actually held his ground in talks when it came to it and has been surprised by the murmuring wave of respect since, which he feels like doesn’t deserve because he didn’t stand up for what was important when it counted for himself. What difference would it have made, letting the admin staff wear Converse; keeping their lunchbreak yoga; having Eggsy around? Harry could have been equally persuasive whilst being himself, and now he just feels like a fraud. 

And he can’t pretend anything's killed his festive spirit quite as much the absence of Eggsy’s smile; their inconsequential little chats. He was more than happy to get himself involved in spending an arbitrary ten quid on Alastair - he suspects some sleight of hand was involved in that draw considering Eggsy is well aware Harry’s known him for years - when he still had those little moments scattered through his day.   It’s silly, he knows, but it sits heavily in his chest nonetheless.

There’s nobody to read the rubbish joke on his Penguin wrapper to, so he turns his attention to the stack of cards and couple of gifts he’s been left. There’s a big pile chosen from the mind boggling quantity he’s been sent by the public - who even does that? - but he reads the internal ones first, saving for last the one stuck like a tag to what’s presumably his secret santa gift: since he’s cried off the naff-Christmas-jumpers-and-mince-pies gathering, he’ll miss the official swap. He pulls the envelope off and works absently at the tape whilst he flips over the glittery pug in a santa hat to read the note inside.

_ Dear Harry  _

_ So, as I am sure you know I got moved up to events admin, which is technically a promotion but I dunno, it’s not as fun and it feels like a bit of a kick in the teeth not working directly with you, because you’re like, the big guv, and… you’re you.  _

_ I’m wondering if maybe that’s why I got moved. I know I weren’t always the most professional but we had a laugh, didn’t we? I’m sorry if I took it too far. So I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose… I tried to come tell you about it but my clearance doesn’t get me in the house now, and I ain’t got your number, and it’s not like you’ve got Facebook or anything. I miss you, and I was kinda hoping I'd get to give you this in person. Maybe not just this. _

_ But yes I DID rig the Secret Santa so that I could get you this, and that big bloke who drives the second car agreed to bring it in for you though it’s probably been x rayed, swabbed, the works. And I want you to have it anyway, because I don’t want you to be able to drink tea without thinking of me :) _

_ And because it’s true. I’m sure you’re going to do amazing. _

_ All the best.  _

_ Love, Eggsy.  _

Harry unwraps the mug from its bubble wrap, its proud banner announcing the bearer “Best Prime Minister We’ve Got,” and chokes on a laugh. It’s thoughtful and perfect, of course. He looks back at the card, at the simple reflection of truth he can barely believe; looks back at that  _ love Eggsy  _ and before he can stop himself thinks   _ I do. I really do _ .

That intercom button comes in handy, because it wastes no time on dialing numbers.

“Emma? Can you get me a car? Yes, now would be wonderful. Thank you.”


	3. Evening (not at all-) Standard

 

 

_ Bzzzt _

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you - would this be the Unwin residence?”

In theory, the plan was flawless. The lovely, if imposing Jeremy had dropped several members of staff home during the recent public transport strikes - tabling with the unions is on Harry’s to do list, honestly - and that had included depositing Eggsy at the bottom of his block of flats, so heading there and ringing his doorbell should have been easy.

It seems less so, standing at the foot of a towering municipal monstrosity that takes up three sides of a square; a brutalist horseshoe of concrete galleries and iron fire escapes… and a hundred and twenty entry bells.

The first four don’t even yield an answer, the fifth just swearing, the sixth incoherence. 

“And you don’t have any idea at all what number?” 

Jeremy, innocently rueful, shakes his head and says nothing at all about his charge’s quest to get on the wrong side of every single occupant of a rather depressing council estate. Not to mention the fact he hasn’t even made an attempt to question why Harry might be feeling such a pressing need to chase down their startlingly lovely former tea boy when he’s quite rightly knocked off early for the Christmas break. 

He tries another bell. Another five. Ten. It’s all much the same. 

“You what? No Unwins here.”

_ Bzzzt _

“Unwins? Didn’t that shut years ago? There’s a Bargain Booze down the road”

_ Bzzzt _

“Nah.”

_ Bzzzt _

“Nope.”

_ Bzzzt _

“Look, this is the last time I’m buzzin’ you up for that lot, if you can’t-“ Harry’s so dazed wish suddenly nervous excitement that he tunes out a lot of the ensuing diatribe which is something about the police and fights and drug dealers and people using the fire escape to practice parkour, whatever that is, and finishes in “...And when you do get your hands on that lad, give him one from me.”

“Madam, I will do nothing of the sort.”

In the hallway, he realises she probably means a kicking rather than anything more appealing and _oh, well_. But he won’t be doing that either. 

It takes just two staircases for harry to regret his woolen overcoat and by the fifth he’s also regretting lunch, his lifestyle in general and perhaps every other decision that has lead to him standing in a dingy walkway looking at a worryingly battered front door. Reassuringly - or actually the opposite when he really thinks about it-  Jeremy is also pink and out of breath so Harry gives them both a long count of three to recover, screws his courage to the sticking place, and knocks. 

The door opens two inches, on a chain.

“Terribly sorry to bother you. Is Gary home?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“My name is Harry, I-“

“Eggsy’s Harry?”

_ Yes _ , he wants to say,  _ yes I’m his. Hopelessly, foolishly. _ But the door closes sharply then opens in his face to reveal a pretty, tired looking woman in an obnoxiously sparkly white jumper, her reassuringly familiar green gaze haloed with feathered dark blonde hair. 

_ An angel.  _

“Fuck me, you’re the prime minister.”

“I… am, yes.”

“Mum where the fuck are Daisy’s shoes, I ain’t - oh.” Eggsy appears in the corridor. “Hello, Harry.”

“Hello.”

“You look a bit out of breath, you alright?”

“Well I’ve just run up five flights of stairs. I've wasted half an hour ringing doorbells trying to find you, and I thought you might - you're off out, evidently." 

“Yeah, it's Daisy's nativity. Hang on. You been knocking round the flats looking for me? Why didn’t you just get my number from work?”

Harry falters.

“That would be a horrific breach of the GDPR.”

“Right, whatever. Look, I’d ask you in but we're already late for the play.”

That does … to some extent… explain why an adorable little girl in an outfit that appears to be primarily made of tinfoil, and a tinsel headband with a single spiralled horn attached to it, is pretending not to be watching them from the living room doorway. 

“Of course. Well, I won’t keep you. I just… wanted to…”  _ to what, you bloody idiot?  _

_ To kiss you. To confess my utterly unfounded but probably undying love. To ask your mother’s blessing to take you on a month long sun sea and sex holiday in Aruba and end up half naked on the front of every tabloid in the country.  _

_ To stare stupidly at you in a narrow corridor, observed by an unimpressed four year old dressed as a unicorn who’s becoming increasingly impatient that you might miss her thespian debut, not speaking for fear of setting anything but The perfect chain of events in motion.  _ Harry is paralysed by the significance of the moment, in grave danger of ruining it all for fear of ruining it. 

“Eggsy, I-“

“Harry. Would you like to come and see _T_ _ he Stegosaurus that Saved Christmas?”  _

That, at least, is easy. 

“I’d love to.”

 

Of course it can’t be that simple, because nothing involving the unholy trinity of families, Christmas and romance ever is, and because although there’s a privacy screen between them in the back of the sedan and Eggsy's mother who sits beside Jeremy in the front, there is also a small child bouncing with excitement and wrapped in crinkly fabric -  like a hyperactive Quality Street - between Harry and Eggsy.

"You must be Daisy. I've heard a great deal about you from your big brother, and I must say that’s a very pretty unicorn costume.”  He refrains from asking what a unicorn would be doing at the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. 

“Err, I’m a narwhal,” she says, with an eyeroll that she shares with her brother and, well, that will teach him.

“Right.”  Fortunately, the terse fold of her arms means she slumps in the seat and Harry can see Eggsy over her... headwear.  “Thank you. For the mug, and the card.” He makes sure his eyes tell Eggsy how thoroughly he read that card, and he wonders if that's his own look of nervous hope he sees reflected back in Eggsy's expression before he schools it into a deliberate pout. 

“Didn’t think you’d get them. Thought it would get blown up in controlled conditions like that time Steve left his lunchbox on the steps, considering I’m on the banned list.”

“I’m sorry about that. There were some murmurings that I was getting distracted, letting things slip.” The meeting of their eyes feels important and as reassuring as a touch. For all they’re not saying, somehow Harry knows Eggsy understands that there’s only one reason sending him away would be thought a solution to that; that all the little moments they’ve both felt add up to exactly what they think.

“It’s probably for the best." Eggsy allows his frown to soften. "I dunno how much longer I coulda carried on like things were normal, feeling… like I do.” 

“Eggsy, I-“

“ _ WE’RE HERE!”  _

Daisy shrilly draws the necessary attention to the fact the car has stopped, wriggles out of her seatbelt and roundly pokes Harry in the ear with her horn as she clambers over his lap.

  
  
  


It does take a bit of persuading for Eggsy to actually get Harry out of the car at his sister's school... for which read: Eggsy looks at him, smiles that smile and extends a hand to help him out of the car.

“It’s alright, I went here. We can hang back. Nobody will even know you’re here.”

So, naturally, the door Eggsy sneaks them in through lands them squarely in a throng of out of place, giant looking people surrounding a paper mache model of what Harry initially mistakes for a tit but could be the Taj Mahal,  drinking what might not be orange squash out of plastic cups.   


_ “Harry?” _

“Percival? What on earth are you doing here?”

It’s an absurd question, attack as the best form of defence because Percival at least does have a family and therefore probably a more legitimate reason to be at a nativity play than the world’s weirdest first date, and he isn't the bloody prime minister,  but to the best of Harry’s knowledge Percival’s daughter is… about Eggsy's age, which is a bit depressing. 

“Roxanne has been doing the Saturday music lessons for the year threes as part of her Baccalaureate." His initial surprise disappears under his pride. "They're hardly the Philharmonic, but she's done ever so well .”

“You’re Rox’ dad! Alright?"

Seeing one of the MPs on his spontaneous jaunt is one thing: it becoming apparent that their lives are all more intertwined than Harry has ever even contemplated is more than he has room to process at this moment. 

“You’ve met Eggsy, from catering?”

“Oi. Events,” he grins, “but I’m hoping for a demotion. And yeah, but not at work. Small world, innit!"

The silence in which Harry is obviously supposed to be explaining why exactly he has taken it upon himself to accompany a conspicuously attractive member of support staff to  family event is so cavernous that it sucks the life out of the other conversations in the room and everybody turns to look at them expectantly.

“Yes. Well. Eggsy's sister is about to take her start turn as Narwhal Three and we’d hate to miss anything, so I suppose we'd better take out seats?"

“Absolutely. Happy Christmas Harry, Eggsy.” He gives Harry a spontaneous and cheerful hug - that’s definitely not orange squash - and pats Eggsy on the back, leaning in no doubt to joke at Harry’s expense. “You want to keep an eye on him, you know. Twenty years ago you’d have been just his type.”

“ _ Really.  _ Fancy that.” Eggsy totally, gleefully ignores Harry’s uncomfortable cough and waves to the assembled crowd of staff and relations as they make their way into the corridor, where thankfully the flow of people is all headed the same way so nobody clocks who Harry is. They just file in via the trestle table refreshment kiosk, paying a totally arbitrary amount of pocket change for a packet of fruit pastilles and a can of warm Seven Up each, bought from the trestle table refreshments kiosk which takes just long enough that they can quite reasonably file into the back row of orange plastic chairs just as the lights are dimmed.

And yes. O _ f course.  _ Harry finally assembles the pieces. __ _ St Arthur’s Primary .  _ T here stands Merlin, his standard charcoal and tweed jumper accented with a bright red and green tie and an absurd Santa hat , welcoming everybody to the production. He doesn’t spot Harry - thank goodness, he’ll have a job explaining this one - and the hall lights dim, throwing a spotlight on an exuberant ten year old… angel? Jellyfish? Harry isn’t sure anymore... who begins to tell the story of The Stegosaurus who Saved Christmas.

Eggsy’s hand rests on the outside of his own thigh nearest Harry, and Harry mirrors him so that the backs of their knuckles rest against each other. Eggsy smiles at him, and doesn’t move. 

The play starts up in earnest with a xylophone cover of Wham’s  _ Last Christmas -  _ to a cacophony of groans and one "damn it, three more days!" scattered through the audience - and Eggsy puts his finger to his lips, beckoning Harry to sidle out of their row and silently through the propped open fire escape.

Harry finds himself swept up, guided along dark corridors adorned with handprint reindeer, cotton wool snowmen and posters about teeth, until they’ve skirted the outside of the hall and come to an area obviously only frequented by staff. _Anywhere_ : the conversation no longer seems to need to be had but anywhere without an audience will do for now, for the moment that's hanging over them like the sword of Damocles; like mistletoe.

Eggsy tries his own ID fob against the pad by a set of double doors but it just bleeps crossly, flashing up a red light. Undeterred, he produces a credit card and a bit of wire from an inside pocket, conceals the movements of his hands with the breadth of his back and then shoulders the door open when it clicks.

How resourceful. Harry should probably be worried about that. 

The kitchen is lit only by the glow of the digital dials on the industrial microwaves and a string of fairy lights someone’s left on around a sad but determined little Christmas tree in the corner; the room mostly empty for the holidays apart from a few urns and spare boxes of sweets and cans of soft drink.  The door swings shut with the decisive crunch of a fire release mechanism clicking into place, the hubbub of the audience and players outside reduces to a muffled rumble and they are alone.

“Are we going to miss anything?”

“Nah.” Eggsy finally pulls Harry to face him by the lapels of his jacket. “Daisy will test you on it though, so…  Mary ends up riding a dinosaur.. you know, like the donkey… to Bethnal Green, and the baby Jesus is a Mister Potatohead for some reason.”  _ Obviously.  _ “There’s five wise men, cos someone’s mum complained, and the donkey is Mr. Hodge’s Irish wolfhound and it wee'd on the floor in rehearsals. She’ll want to tell you about that. The last song is _Let it Go_ and everybody has to join in.”

“Do we get a print out of the words? 

“Fuck me, can tell you ain’t got kids. No. I’ll teach you.” Eggsy grips Harry’s blazer properly and pulls him towards him.  “In a bit. ”

Because then is time for not talking.  There is time for a long, deep dip into the sea-green of Eggsy’s eyes and for the world to spin like a Christmas bauble momentarily, and then their lips meet. 

One kiss turns into two, and a third that doesn't really have an ending before the next; the gentle, questioning touch of lips and then tongue that opens up into desperate, hungry necking the likes of which Harry hasn't indulged in since boarding school. Somehow he finds himself lifting Eggsy onto the cold metal of the counter and getting enthusiastically wrapped in his arms, his legs, his aftershave, the taste of his skin when his mouth wanders off across Eggsy's jaw. It's heaven.  Harry gets thoroughly lost in Eggsy and revels in the silent little groans he feels through their chest rather than hears; thrills for the feeling of Eggsy's hands loosening his tie enough to get to his neck, and nothing else matters until the band strikes up. 

“Interval,” mumbles Eggsy against his mouth. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Harry doesn’t worry about it.

There’s a clattering screech and then the abrupt silence, not only of its absence, but void of all the chatter and laughter that’s been bubbling in the background. It takes Harry a long moment to make his way back to reality and find himself blinking in bright light: first from the hall through the open hatch, and then supplemented with camera flashes.

“Ah.”

“Oh f-“  Through the shock, Harry is grateful Eggsy just about manages to shut up before his first public words are unprintable - because god knows they’re getting printed - and instead he manages a gritted, slightly hysterical whisper through his teeth. He’s the one face on to their stunned public, and thank baby Jesus or Mr Potatohead or whoever the saviour of the moment is: Harry is still standing between his legs which, whilst a tad incriminating in itself, conceals anything far more obscene from view. “Harry? What do we do now?”

“Just smile.”  Eggsy grins, and Harry manages one of his showstoppingly awkward public waves. 

“Well.” There’s a warm, surprised laugh in Merlin’s interjection that skillfully guides the moment from shock to celebration, and Harry has never been so bloody grateful for the man in his life. “That will teach us for putting mistletoe up, wont it?” 

He draws the shutter back down with a resounding, dramatic slam and the hall bursts into applause.

 

 

 

**A NEW ERA**  is the surprisingly subtly headline the Sun goes for on Christmas Eve to accompany the picture of Harry and Eggsy standing hand in hand on the steps of 10 Downing Street following their rather shotgun press announcement.

Richard Littlejohn of the Daily Mail goes for the far more true to form  **IS THIS THE FUTURE LIBERALS WANT** and the comments on the papers’ website have to be disabled lest the vehemence with which its readers foam at the mouth collapses their servers, apparently. He knows this because Eggsy brings a copy to his office with his mid morning coffee, another tucked under his arm.

“I’m keeping all of these,” he announces. “Gonna frame them and put them up round the office.”  

It is indeed a work of journalistic innuendo worth saving for the annals.  He’s going fucking spare trying to make it sound like his outrage is something to do with legitimate politics and not just homophobia, but you can  _ hear _ his blood pressure in the type. 

“He’s called me your  _ fancy boy _ .”  The raise of Eggsy's eyebrows says he clearly takes that as a compliment and why not, indeed. He steps up to press against Harry and accept the hot, slow kiss that comes naturally until he bites at Harry’s lip and drops his hands to his belt. “Fancy a bit?”

“I can’t help but feel that’s exactly what they’re worried might be happening. Canoodling in the Cabinet.”

“...Blowjobs before the Budget.  _ Is this the future liberals want?” _

Harry welcomes him for another kiss. 

“Yes it fucking is.”

**Author's Note:**

> A merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for being an incredible fandom this year. Don't forget to come chat to me on twitter- @agentsnakebite - and to leave me a comment or something if you enjoyed!


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